Thirty Two Minutes, Fourteen Seconds
by machiavelli
Summary: In Harry Potter fanfic (and canon thus far), there are two seperate worlds: the normal world (rarely touched) and the magical world; they never cross paths. Perhaps there is a different way of looking at things. (6/1: Added... something)
1. Thirty Two Minutes, Fourteen Seconds

Twenty-Three Minutes, Fourteen Seconds

Twenty-Three Minutes, Fourteen Seconds

"There are hardly any excesses of the most crazed psychopath that cannot easily be duplicated by a normal, kindly family man that comes in to work every day and has a job to do. A man who knew that, knew everything he needed to know about people."

Terry Pratchett, Small Gods

There is an elevator in a Los Angeles skyscraper, climbing its way laboriously through the sixty-seventh floor. Within it stands a man, dressed casually in a spotless Armani suit and carefully holding an expensive briefcase in his left hand. His name is Mr. Plekhanov. And he is – as he notes with pride, without even bothering to check his watch – exactly three minutes, twelve seconds early for his meeting.

And now the elevator comes to a smooth halt; the door slides open without a sound. Mr. Plekhanov steps out into a carpeted, expensively furnished office. Specifically, the room features a spotless desk, a single leather chair that looks extraordinarily comfortable, and, through the unmarked glass walls facing the desk, an excellent view of the city below, only moderately obscured by smog today.

However, the room, with the exception of the recently arrived Mr. Plekhanov, lacks an occupant. Mr. Plekhanov, to his credit, does not register a single sign of annoyance. He stands in front of the desk and waits, his left hand thumb silently tapping out the seconds on the briefcase handle.

Exactly ten minutes and nineteen seconds pass.

At ten minutes, twenty seconds, a door directly on Mr. Plekhanov's left. A short, fat bull of man stomps his way into the room. He does not request Mr. Plekhanov's forgiveness for his unpunctual nature, nor does he do so much as glance with his permanently angry eyes in Mr. Plekhanov's direction as he crosses behind the desk and falls into his massive chair. He doesn't even bother to notice the well-dressed aide that follows his every step (though, to be fair, neither does Mr. Plekhanov).

This is Mr. Stockton. And Mr. Plekhanov is very glad that Mr. Stockton is his superior. Which isn't to say (as Mr. Plekhanov notes the lifeblood of an oyster gracing Mr. Stockton's tie) that Mr. Plekhanov would not strangle his employer with his bare hands, given a respectable motivation.

(Mr. Stockton abruptly begins to cough. His aide appears quickly by his side, displaying the expected level of concern.)

Yet there are many individuals in Mr. Plekhanov's life that would already be dead, were it not for reason's deciding influence. 

Mr. Stockton recovers control of his airways. He waves away the aide with one arm, and cleans ingested tomato sauce off of his chin. Now – now he looks up, exactly eight minutes twenty-nine seconds after the scheduled time.

"What ya got for me ?"

"An interesting development," says Mr. Plekhanov. 

Mr. Stockton glares at his employee. "Interesting development, meaning _drek we're screwed_ or _damn, we're rich_ ?"

(And it should be noted here that while Mr. Plekhanov indeed considers his employer egotistical, crude, and unorganized, he does see one redeeming attribute in Mr. Stockton: that being that, despite his training as a manager, Mr. Stockton occasionally displays a sub-standard yet undeniable intelligence. Needless to say, Mr. Plekhanov has lived long enough to value this quality in an employer).

"At this point, the possibility for either remains." Mr. Plekhanov places his briefcase on the desk. "Though I believe we are ahead of the competition in the acquisition of this information."

"Bottom line," Mr. Stockton growls. "What's in it for us ?"

"A possible boon to research and development. Specifically concerning the SMD immunization project."

Mr. Stockton now seems interested, if not particularly impressed.  
"Thought we were ahead on that one."

"We are," says Mr. Plekhanov. "This is more of an accident than a breakthrough. In Britain."

Mr. Stockton's small eyes flick up. "Britain. Not London."

"Yes."

"Britain. As in, Falkland Islands Britain."

"Yes." Mr. Plekhanov clicks open the briefcase.

"As in, hasn't-done-a-damn-thing-for-a-century Britain."

"The same." From the case, Mr. Plekhanov withdraws a carefully labeled file and holds it in his hand. "Are you familiar with the name of Thomas Riddle ?"

"Name sounds familiar." Mr. Stockton shuts one eye. "Tried to kill a SMD survivor back in the eighties. Goes by some nom de whatever or another."

"Voldemort, sir," chimes in the aide.

"Yeah. Got himself killed in the process, right ?"

Mr. Plekhanov nods. "Until this last June. He managed to reincarnate himself."

"I'm impressed," says Mr. Stockton, whose tone indicates that he is anything but. "I'm not hearing anything worth missing lunch for, Georgi."

"Voldemort used a basic regeneration sequence to recreate his body," Mr. Plekhanov says calmly.

"Nothing we can't match."

"Naturally. The only interesting part of the matter is that the required blood of the enemy was contributed by Voldemort's attempted victim."

"The SMD survivor."

"Harry Potter," Mr. Plekhanov confirms. Now he slides the folder across the desk. "Age fifteen. Saved by mother's death. Presently attending a popular boarding school in Scotland. Otherwise lives with relatives in southern England."

Mr. Stockton takes the folder. "So what's the punchline ?"

"Voldemort believes that, as a result of the transfer, he has the mother's death protection."

Perhaps Mr. Stockton slightly leans forward in his comfortable chair. "And ?"

"I arranged for an non-invasive test last night. Results are promising."

"How promising ?"

"Voldemort survived a long-range curse from the Sisters. Furthermore, he didn't so much as notice the attack."

Now Mr. Stockton leaps from his chair. His nostrils flare. The folder drops to his feet.

"Who knows about this ?" His voice is uncharacteristically quiet, almost a whisper.

"The Sisters," says Mr. Plekhanov. "Dr. Palmer in Research and Development."

"No one else ? None of the other corps've heard this ?"

"The probability is low."

Mr. Stockton throws his head around. "You," he barks to the aide. "Down to the basement. Dispose of yourself immediately."

"Yes, sir," says the aide promptly.

Mr. Stockton does not speak again until the aide, having spat his tongue into the wastebasket, enters the elevator. As the door closes, he again fixes Mr. Plekhanov with a glare.

"So what do we do ?" he hisses.

"I recommend removal of the victim," says Mr. Plekhanov.

"The Potter kid."

"Yes. Voldemort is considered a powerful figure in Britain. His disappearance might upset local conditions."

"Can we do it without risking our stuff in London ?" 

"Voldemort is the leader of a revolutionary group," said Mr. Plekhanov. "Magical fascists, essentially. Directly at odds with the governing magical authority. The authorities presently have Potter under their protection."

"None of these people know a thing about us."

"No." Mr. Plekhanov crosses around the desk and scoops the folder from the floor. "I believe we might be able to play the two forces against one another without revealing ourselves." He hands the file to his employer.

Mr. Stockton turns the folder nervously in his hands. "We'll need free agents. No way can we get directly involved."

"I already have a possibility in mind. Last page in the file."

Mr. Stockton opens the file. He looks at the page for a moment. Then recognition dawns in his beady eyes. "I know these two," he says.

"We've made use of their services in the past," says Mr. Plekhanov. "Expensive, but well worth the price."

"Will they leave London for us ?" asks Mr. Stockton.

"I've already contacted them. They are quite willing, provided the price meets their standards."

Mr. Stockton shuts both eyes.

He seems somewhat out of breath. He flips to the front of the binder, and with a pen from his desk, scribbles down his name in a vivid red ink. 

"I'll get this on Mr. Iago's desk by tonight," he says. "For the time being, take as much from the department budget as you need."

The binder shuts with a snap. Stockton grips it tightly with both hands, like a starving man guarding his last meal.

"You've always come through, Georgi." Mr. Stockton's eyes are glittering, like dimes fresh from the mint. "This might be the future of the company right here. I want to see this kid down in r-and-d before the other corps hear his frigging _name_."

"Three months," says Mr. Plekhanov. He closes his briefcase and enters the elevator. 

Twenty-three minutes, fourteen seconds, he thinks as the elevator begins its descent. A short meeting, for Mr. Stockton. Even if he was late.

Maybe I'll have time for Starbucks.

In a house on a street called Privet Drive, Harry Potter sleeps in his room. He does not dream. He does not wake.

**

Review, please. Should this be continued ?

Responses to the Reviews Thus Far:

First, my thanks to any readers this story has attracted – these and others.

I went through a period of writing fanfic about four years ago. Then I stopped, and went original.

So why am I back here ? I've been writing plays, for the most part, pretty much ever since I stopped writing fanfic. This is generally an exercise in prose – stretching muscles I haven't used for a while.

Anyway, whether I continue in this vein or not really depends on two things: first, the response I get to the story (which has been positive thus far, thank you everyone). Second, whether or not I have the energy to make a prolonged project out of it. If I do, I should warn you that it will get fairly experimental. From present tense to past tense, for example. There's no way of telling how each part will come out.

In any case, bear with me – maybe I can put something together.

To 'muggle genius' – Don't worry. Used 'SMD' to be enigmatic.

To 'Madman' Magic – Grin. How'd you guess, chummer ?

To Analise Drabble, Nora, and all the rest: Thanks for your time. Like I said, I'll try my best.


	2. A Few Moments

A Few Moments

A Few Moments

But time will be set aside for Mr. Potter later. Instead, regard Albus Dumbledore.

He is, at present, taking a nap. In a comfortable, venerable chair, in his office at Hogwarts Academy of Witchcraft and Wizardry. 

Albus Dumbledore, it should be mentioned, is considered the most powerful wizard in Europe, with one other possible contender.

He also snores very loudly.

It is, to be fair, six o'clock in the morning in Scotland. A desk, scattered with all pieces of reference, information, and correspondence, gives witness to a long, active night of activity beforehand. 

One wonders what business could make a powerful wizard of one-hundred-and-two, and more to point a dedicated advocate of the value of a good night's sleep, pursue an activity into such late hours of the night.

It should be perhaps be noted at this point that Albus Dumbledore is not alone in this room.

For example: there is his pet phoenix, Fawkes, looking quite sickly, but nonetheless asleep. There are the portraits of the past Heads of Hogwarts – all, at present, empty (their occupants, lacking Fawkes' tolerance for their esteemed colleague's nighttime sounds, having left grumbling for quieter areas of Hogwarts hours before). There is a lukewarm teapot set on the desk, delivered quietly by a houseelf servant at five o'clock. 

And then, there is a whisper.

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE.

It is a quiet sound. It nonetheless carries the dust of ages in every syllable; the words sound like the slamming of coffins, the slow grinding of tombstones.

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE.

It is infinitely less intense a noise than Dumbledore's continuing snoring. Nonetheless, it cuts through the air, through the walls, out into the empty castle, like a particularly sharp pendulum.

ALBUS… ?

It is also beginning to sound slightly – just very slightly – impatient.

There is an unfortunate, unpleasant moment when one is woken unexpectedly early in the morning. Even for the greatest wizard in all of Europe.

"Argkkkh." Albus opens his eyes, blinks, tries to keep them shut, fails. There is a bright light in his face – the sunrise through the window. Thought I told those bloody curtains to stay shut, he thinks in uncharacteristic annoyance. 

Then he catches a glimpse of the figure by the window, whose infinitely cold hand happens to be grasping the curtain cord. And then Albus Dumbledore is fully awake.

"Ah," he says.

For he regards a seven-foot-tall skeleton, wrapped in a black cloak. Its eye sockets glow an eternal, unnatural blue in the morning sunlight. 

The key item is the scythe.

"Ah," says Albus again. "I'm afraid I wasn't expecting you."

NO ONE REALLY DOES.

Death walked – no, casually stalked -- to the side of the desk. It seemed very interested in a small, whirring silver device next to the inkwell. It held the scythe in its right hand.

It says a great deal about Albus Dumbledore that, at that moment, he began to think.

Let see, he thought. I'll need to check the shielding charm on the castle. The apparatation countercharms too, if there's time. He glanced around and found his wand underneath a recent, quite resentful letter from Cornelius Fudge. "It's a pleasant morning," he said, for no other reason than polite conversation, as he began to twirl his wand. "I couldn't have asked for better."

I AM PLEASED TO HEAR THAT.

"I take it," Albus said, his wand moving in small circles, triangles, and hexagons, "that I have some moments remaining?"

A FEW MOMENTS, I'M AFRAID. NOT MANY.

"Ah. I thank you for waking me."

OF COURSE.

Albus paused; the test spells had reached the point that required his concentration. Death seemed to be looking around the room. Its eye sockets eventually came to rest on the forgotten teapot, with the three cups resting nearby.

AH. MAY I ?

"Feel free. I'm afraid it's grown a tad cold."

IT IS OF NO MATTER.

The test spells returned positive. Everything seems to be in order, thought Albus. Flitwick should easy be able to maintain the defenses from there. And if not, I've left instructions for Minerva and Severus, in the locked drawer in the staff room. "I could have Dobby bring up a new pot."

NO, NO. THANK YOU. THIS WILL BE FINE.

"Are you sure ?" 

I AM POSITIVE. I MUST BE LEAVING SHORTLY, IN ANY CASE.

Ah.

Was there anything he had forgotten about ? His theories regarding Voldemort were safe in Alastor's hands. His response to Fudge's letter was in the process of being delivered. A list of recommended replacements for Headmaster was in the staff room. A number of personal letters marked "TO BE DELIVERED IN CASE OF MY DEATH" rested sealed in his desk drawer. The letter to Harry…

Oh, dear. The letter to Harry. That was it.

"I don't suppose you can tell me the cause," he said.

NOT OF THIS MOMENT, I AM AFRAID.

"Ah." 

Who should he have keep the letter ? Sirius ? No; Sirius was still in too much danger. Hagrid, then ? Still away with the giants. Arthur Weasley ? No; poor Arthur had enough on his hands. The same went for Lupin.

Hagrid it was, then.

Albus reached for his quill, and scanned his desk for a clear piece of parchment. Across the desk, Death sipped from its cup (an impressive feat, for an entity with no lips).

He finally managed to extract a somewhat bent but useable piece of official Hogwarts stationary from underneath a week-old copy of the New York Times (headline: _NASA: Space Station To Be Complete By Next Year_). He scribbled, _Dear Hagrid, my old friend_.

"You know," he said, "it's very strange. I do believe that I feel fine." _I must ask you for one more favor. _"Then again, you most likely hear that quite frequently."  
INDEED.

_There is a letter for Harry in my desk drawer. To be given to him upon his graduation from Hogwarts._

"Cardiac arrest, perhaps ? Though I have been trying to get more exercise for the last few years."

IT IS POSSIBLE.

"Hmmm."

_Or upon his nineteenth birthday. Whichever occurs first._

"I don't suppose that tea is poisoned."

Death appeared to sniff at its cup. I DO NOT BELIEVE SO.

_"And besides, I don't believe I was planning to consume it."_

EVEN IF IT IS EARL GRAY ? 

I ask that it remained sealed until that day. It is for his eyes only, when it is time.

"Even so."

YOUR LOSS, I AM AFRAID. IT IS EXCELLENT.

_Hagrid, you are a good man, a good teacher, and the best of friends. It has been an honor to be in your company._

__Death finished the cup, and placed it down on the saucer.

_I have always trusted you, and always will trust you._

It raised the scythe, and appeared to be checking the blade.

_Take care of yourself, and Harry, _Albus wrote very quickly. _Your friend…_

I AM AFRAID IT IS TIME.

_… Albus Dumbledore_

"Ah." Dumbledore put down his quill, and rose from his seat. Then quickly sat down again – it wouldn't do to fall onto the desk. "Thank you for warning me."

OF COURSE.

Death swung.

Upon contact with the blade, Fawkes immediately exploded. It was, after all, that time of the month.

Albus sat, blinking. His internal organs, unless he was mistaken, were still in operation. He also seemed to be breathing quite normally. Across the desk, Death flicked off a few ashes that had clung to the scythe blade. A few seconds later, a new baby phoenix – ugly, of course; the transformations were always the low point of Fawkes' month – poked its head out of the ash lining the cage.

"Ah," said Albus. He had not, needless to say, forseen this possibility. "Was that –"

MY PURPOSE HERE ? YES.

"I do not believe I recall your presence here on such occasions in the past."

I WAS HERE. I AM EVERYWHERE. I AM EVERYTIME.

"Ah. Perhaps I should better phrase it as you have not revealed yourself for such an occasion in the past ?"

CORRECT.

Death began to polish its scythe.

"Then… you said I had but a few moments left…"

SO YOU DO.

A thought occurred to Albus. "Perhaps you could name the exact number of moments you would consider 'a few' ?"

DO YOU WISH ME TO ?

"Ah. Not particularly."

A WISE DECISION.

Death put down his scythe, and reached for his teacup. Albus thought for another moment.

"I apologize for prying into your affairs –"

FEEL FREE.

"—but why have you revealed yourself now ?"

AH.

Death paused as it poured from the teapot, and picked up its cup.

YOU OWE SOME VERY STRANGE PEOPLE A FAVOR, ALBUS DUMBLEDORE.

"Who ?"

I BELIEVE YOU KNOW WHO.

And Albus, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, remembered.

Oh, dear, he thought. Them.

This is unfortunate. This is quite unfortunate. 

"I believe you are right," Albus said, as calmly as he could manage.

THEY REQUESTED THAT I GIVE A MESSAGE TO YOU.

"I must admit that I have not heard of you acting as a messenger before."

ONLY IN CERTAIN CIRCUMSTANCES.

"Ah."

I HAVE MY REASONS, IN THIS CASE.

"I see."

Death lifted the cup.

I should have seen this coming, thought Albus. Nothing is free in their world. It was foolish of me to hope otherwise.

"May I ask," Albus said, through suddenly dry lips, "what the message is ?"

IT IS AS FOLLOWS, said Death. YOU WILL SEND YOUR GAMEKEEPER HAGRID TO KINGS' CROSS ON THE DAY THE HOGWARTS EXPRESS DEPARTS LONDON. A YOUNG BOY WILL BE WAITING OUTSIDE THE PORTAL TO STATION NINE-AND-THREE-QUARTERS. HE WILL BE BROUGHT TO HOGWARTS, AND INDUCTED AS A FIRST YEAR STUDENT.

YOU WILL NOT QUESTION THE BOY ABOUT HIS ORIGINS. YOU WILL NOT INFORM YOUR FACULTY OF THIS AFFAIR, INCLUDING THIS CONVERSATION AND THE EVENTS THAT . NOR WILL YOU GIVE A SINGLE HINT TO ANY OTHER SOUL THAT HE IS OF ANY PARTICULAR INTEREST. HIS NAME IS TO BE PLACED ON THE LIST OF NEW STUDENTS THIS SUMMER; YOU WILL INDICATE TO ANYONE WHO ASKS HIS ADDITION THAT HE IS BORN OF A NON-MAGICAL FAMILY WHO CAME TO YOUR PERSONAL ATTENTION THIS SUMMER, HAVING SOMEHOW ESCAPED DETECTION BY THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC.

HIS NAME IS ANDREW WIGGUM. HE HAS BEEN PROVIDED WITH THE NECESSARY EQUIPMENT FOR A FIRST YEAR STUDENT. HE IS FOUR FOOT NINE; HE HAS BLACK HAIR THAT HAS BEEN DYED GREEN; HE HAS BLUE EYES. HE WILL BE CARRYING A LARGE DUFFEL BAG. HE WILL BE WEARING A SHORT SLEEVE SHIRT, UPON WHICH IS PRINTED A MAP OF THE LONDON UNDERGROUND.

THEY WILL BE WATCHING. ANY ATTEMPT TO BREACH THE STATED CONDITIONS WILL BE CONSIDERED A VIOLATION OF THE AGREEMENT, AND THEY WILL REACT ACCORDINGLY.

DO YOU UNDERSTAND ?

"Yes," said Albus Dumbledore. 

Now you've got yourself into a fine muddle, and the school with you, he thought to himself. Why would they send me a student ? What could they learn here ? And why now ? 

He didn't care to contemplate the answers. Nor, for that matter, did he care to ponder what his debtors considered an according reaction.

Across the desk, Death had finished its second cup.

DO YOU WISH ME TO REPEAT THE MESSAGE ?

"No," said Albus. "No thank you. I believe I caught it the first time."

THEN I AM AFRAID I MUST BE GOING.

Death stood up, and placed the cup back next to the teapot.

"By any chance," said Albus carefully, "did they say why they ask this… this particular form of repayment ?"

I AM AFRAID NOT.

"I suspected as such."

THAT MAY BE FOR THE BEST. CERTAIN KNOWLEDGE IS DANGEROUS. 

Albus rubbed his head. "I believe that I become more aware of that particular truth with every passing moment."

Death grinned. Not like it had a choice.

IF IT IS OF ANY COMFORT, I DO NOT BELIEVE THEY WOULD PLACE YOURSELF OR YOUR SCHOOL IN ANY DANGER. THEY CERTAINLY WOULD NOT REQUEST SUCH A LENGTH OF SECRECY UNLESS THEY INTENDED ITS MAINTAINENCE.

"But for how long ?"

TRUE.

Death took up its scythe.

I THANK YOU FOR YOUR HOSPITALITY. MY COMPLIMENTS TO YOUR SERVANT – THE TEA WAS EXCELLENT.

"I will tell him you said so," said Albus. Or perhaps not, he thought. This might be the one compliment Dobby could live without.

I WISH YOU GOOD MORNING.

Death turned his back. He began to fade, turn slowly transparent, like a bad dream upon waking.

Perhaps, Albus thought later, the visit had inspired a strange morbid humor in him. Or perhaps there was some strange ending that the meeting had lacked.

But Albus found himself saying, "I believe that I will see you again, at some point."

And Death had turned its cowled skull and grinned at him.

IN A FEW MOMENTS, ALBUS DUMBLEDORE. IN A FEW MOMENTS.


	3. Philosophical Interlude #1

Philosophical Interlude #1

Philosophical Interlude #1

Perhaps at this point in the narrative, the reader would expect the author to arrived at a certain issue or theme which will become prevalent in the work to come, or, as it is said in the vernacular, the point of the story. For example, it is said among Hollywood filmwriters that a screenplay is usually judged by its first ten pages. Hollywood filmwriters, in a connected issue, also believe that should one eat a spectacularly unpleasant breakfast (for example, a toad), nothing worst will happen to one all day. (Or at least, nothing so dramatic. This is L.A. we're talking about, after all). 

No one knows what Hollywood toads say. Contemplating the number of screenwriters in Hollywood, the population has most likely been extinct for years.   



End file.
